Captain, Doctor, John
by Gnome Ignominious
Summary: Sherlock returns three years after faking his own death, but John isn't waiting to welcome him home. He is, in fact, somewhere entirely less civilian...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First ever Sherlock fic! Enjoy :)**

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><p>Sherlock stepped out of the cab and crossed Baker Street, his eyes fixed on the black door in front of him. There was nothing odd about this action in particular, except for the fact that he hadn't visited this spot in three years. Three very long years. For that was the amount of time that Sherlock felt the world needed to forget that him, and Moriarty, had ever existed. Sherlock felt sure that even John wouldn't think about him, that the name Sherlock Holmes probably hadn't crossed his mind in at least a year. In fact, he was so certain of this that it came as a rather unpleasant shock when he stepped into their old flat.<p>

He still had his key and had crept quietly up the stairs, for fear of either John or Mrs Hudson hearing him. If they were there, he wanted his entry to be a surprise. However, all this left his mind when he saw the living room and kitchen of the flat looking identical to the last time he'd left it, handcuffed and humiliated. The skull was on the mantle-piece, his microscope (a little dusty) was on the side in the kitchen and his second-best dressing gown was draped over the back of his chair. It felt like he had only stepped out for a cigarette.

As Sherlock stood there and took in his surroundings, he began to notice little details, and a picture of John's life without him started to form. The room smelt slightly musty and felt un-lived in. At a guess, Sherlock would say it had been three months since anyone had boiled the kettle or watched tv there. Where was John then, if not here? And why were most of the furniture and oddities left untouched? He went swiftly up the stairs to John's room and upon opening the door, found nothing. Literally nothing.

The room had been stripped bare. The only thing on the bed was a crisp white sheet and there was no underwear in the drawers. John was not living here then. Sherlock checked the wardrobe, which told a different story. Most of John's clothes were still there, including his favourite jeans and shirts. Two books were missing from the bookshelf and his alarm clock was gone from the bedside table. Where then could John be? Sherlock fitted the pieces together. John had been living elsewhere for at least three months, somewhere that didn't allow civilian clothes and permitted no personal extras besides a few small, lightweight items. It made a picture that Sherlock did not like. John was either in prison, or- he checked the box under the bed; no gun- he had re-joined the army.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock fell into a flurry of thoughts and time passed in a blur. He didn't hear the footsteps coming up the stairs behind him and he didn't notice the door open out of the corner of his eye. He did however hear the small squeak that Mrs Hudson emitted before collapsing into a dead faint on the floor. He frowned and lifted her gently onto the bed, then fetched a glass of water and waited for her to come round, which didn't take long. She gasped when she opened her eyes and saw him kneeling beside the bed. She just whispered: "Sherlock... oh, Sherlock..."

"It's all right, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh Sherlock, I thought you were dead! And John, and your brother- and that nice policeman! Where on earth were you? What happened?"

"I can't tell you now, Mrs Hudson, I'm afraid it would take too long. Tell me quickly now, where is John?"

"He said he was going to the only place he could stand to be. He's gone back to Afghanistan."

Sherlock felt his breath leave him in a rush. No John. Possibly no John for a long while. He had always been in control of his emotions, but right now he felt as shredded as that day on the rooftop at St Bart's. And he felt... abandoned.

"You abandoned him, Sherlock. We all thought you were dead. John said he saw it happen, the poor love. A year ago he pulled himself together, swept away the mess you'd made of him, dear, and came down one morning all ready to leave. Wouldn't hear a word against the idea."

Sherlock listened to Mrs Hudson with half an ear. It seemed he had incorrectly computed the effects of his death on John. Did John feel how Sherlock felt now, empty and cold?

"I need to know," Sherlock cut off Mrs Hudson's ramblings. "How long will he be away?"

"He was deployed about six months ago Sherlock. Before that, he had to do some basic fitness training, but they wanted him back. Experience, you know."

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "But when will he be back _here_?"

"He doesn't live here any more, Sherlock, he has officer's quarters on his regimental barracks when he's in the country. As far as I know, his company is coming back on Friday, I think he said. Mentioned he might pop over if he had the time."

"Thank you."

Sherlock collected his thoughts. John was returning from a six month deployment in Afghanistan in three days. He would wait here, in London, maybe even in 221B for him. And Sherlock would try and make things okay. He would make John not hate him. Sherlock was sure that was how John would feel, because right now he hated John.


	3. Chapter 3

The grimy train pulled into Platform 12 at Paddington on Friday morning at precisely 11:49. Captain John Watson stepped off the train with two other officers travelling from the base to London to see their families. All three were resplendent in their No. 5 Dress Khakis complete with 70 litre packs and the dark blue berets which indicated they were in the RAMC. Even the business men rushing to catch their connections paused briefly in respect for the three soldiers who walked with the weight of the world on their shoulders and their brotherhood in their stride. They halted at the top of the steps leading down into the Underground.

"See you in a month then, John."

"Yes. Hope things go well with Jason, Melissa."

"We can but pray." First Lieutenant Melissa Renfrew looked more nervous than she had throughout their entire six month tour in Helmand.

Major Alex Horrocks smirked. "I think I'm going to have the same problem. Luke hates me being posted for so long."

"At least it's only Cyprus this time. Could've been the Falklands with 6th Battalion." John grimaced. "Imagine the whinging."

"And that would just be you, sir," Melissa grinned.

"I'm trying not to be insulted, Lieutenant. That's insubordination, you know."

"Promote me and it won't be."

"Settle down you two," cut in the Major. "I'm surprised we came back in one piece with all that bickering."

"Yes sir. Apologies." The two junior officers looked suitably abashed.

Major Horrocks nodded and John and Melissa drew to attention and saluted sharply, parade ground manner not forgotten even in the moment of light hearted relief. The Major saluted in return. Melissa quickly dropped the formal manner and kissed them both on the cheek; Alex looked disapproving, John blushed slightly. She smiled and headed for the exit, her blue beret quickly disappearing into the crowd.

"John."

"Sir."

The two men shook hands and parted, Alex going the same way as Melissa and John heading down the steps to the tube. He caught the Bakerloo line and six minutes later stepped out onto the platform at Baker Street. He jogged quickly up the escalator, his hefty pack seeming as light as a feather as he neared the familiar black door. A year back in the army had done wonders for his perspective. He no longer felt crippling grief at the thought of Sherlock Holmes; in fact, he was looking forward to seeing the flat and Mrs Hudson again.

He opened the door quietly and slipped up the stairs, wanting a private moment before seeing the landlady. A month in London, then back out to Cyprus with 2nd Battalion would be nice, he thought. He was in control. However, the sight that greeted him as he stepped into the flat made him feel very out of control indeed. His pack thudded to the floor in time with his heart and Captain John Watson simply stood in his khakis and wept.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stood stock still in the living room of 221B as he heard the key click in the lock and footsteps on the stairs. He could tell by the sound of the pace and gait that the man was of military background and bearing, wearing heavy boots, carrying a considerable weight and standing at about 5ft 7. It was undoubtedly John.

Sherlock's brain began to analyse John the second he stepped through the door into the living room. His body showed clear signs of his time in Afghanistan; his face and arms were tanned and his hair was slightly lighter in colour, his shoulders seemed slightly broader and his back a little straighter. He was clad in No. 5 Dress Khakis (or possibly No. 7 Desert Barrack Casuals, Sherlock couldn't recall the difference at the moment) with the RAMC Blue beret in his hand. His hair was cut short and neatly parted on the right side of his head, clearly displaying his left-handedness. His eyes were clear, and, as far as Sherlock could tell, John seemed almost at peace. For a split second, Sherlock knew that John was happy without him.

The thud of John's heavy khaki kit bag hitting the floor and a strangled gasp from his throat brought Sherlock back to the here and now. He didn't really know how to handle the situation. John, a grown man, a soldier, suddenly diminished to a child, sobbing and shaking in the doorway. Sherlock chose the best option from his mental list. He decided to hug John, who didn't really seem to notice. He simply clung quite tightly to Sherlock's clothes as his sobs died down into small gulps and eventually stopped altogether.

John pulled out of Sherlock's long grip and stumbled to his old chair, collapsing into the familiar fabric. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes survived his jump from the roof of St Bart's? The proof stood right in front of him.

"Sherlock." John's voice was hoarse. "You're alive."

"Excellent."

"What?"

"Excellent deduction. Is it possible that my absence has proven somewhat mentally beneficial for you?"

"I... okay, now I can believe it really is you." John half-smiled and ran a hand over his face.

"Tea?"

"That would be fantastic."

Sherlock nodded and went to the kitchen, finding the kettle at the back of a cupboard and the teabags still in their old jar, which now smelled of extremely pungent three- year old tea. He opened the fridge and realised the flaw in the plan.

"John."

"Mmm?"

"No milk."

Their eyes met and all of a sudden they both burst out laughing, Sherlock's normal restraint completely disappearing. John laughed until he started crying again, emotionally overwhelmed. Sherlock sat down opposite him once he was sure that John had finished discretely blowing his nose.

"But _how_, Sherlock?" John looked up from his hands at the man in front of him. "_How_ did you do it?"

"All in good time, John. I would rather wait until both Lestrade and Mrs Hudson are here to hear it. Saves tedious repetition of something rather painfully obvious." Sherlock frowned. "You mean you have no idea at all of how I did it?"

"Sherlock, we all thought you were dead. We weren't about to go poking around to find out why. Lestrade sent Gregson and Hopkins to Bart's roof to deal with Moriarty's body- I assume he is really dead?" Sherlock nodded. "They found Kitty's recording device too. Cleared your name."

"Yes, I know. My brother kept me informed."

"Wait, _what_?" John looked shocked. "Mycroft knew? You mean... he's been lying to my face for three years, the bastard!"

"I'm... I'm sorry John." If possible, John looked more shocked by the apology than the cause. "He was essential to my plan, just as it was essential that you and the police and the world believed that I was dead."

"Right."

"I really will explain later."

John nodded, trying to quell the turmoil of anger and disbelief and hope inside him. He felt like shouting, but instead he calmly said: "I'm going to get some milk. You coming?"

Sherlock felt that it was the least that he could do for John. They needed to talk and a walk in the crisp spring air was perfectly suited to this purpose. He stood up and moved towards the door, but stopped when John tapped him on the shoulder.

"Turn around, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock turned to face John and was caught completely unawares by a sublime, _glittering_ right hook to the jaw that held three years of anger, grief and finally acceptance behind it. He reeled backwards and looked at John in surprise.

"I would have thought a year back in the military would have taken all the violence out of you."

"Don't worry." John looked very pleased with himself. "There's plenty more where that came from." And with that, he double-timed it out of the flat without waiting for Sherlock, the change jingling in his pocket and his mind already back on tea.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Some military!John (or soldier!John, not really sure what it's called lol) for your viewing pleasure: marielikestodraw _dot_ tumblr_ dot_ com/post/3915951996 ...yeah, I didn't draw that :P enjoy chapter 5 :)

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><p>"John... John!" Sherlock called after the khaki-clad figure as he marched jauntily down the street.<p>

"What?" John called over his shoulder without stopping.

"Wait, will you?" John slowed his pace and turned, watching Sherlock jog up the street towards him, simultaneously pulling on his coat and rubbing his face.

"This makes a change," John commented as Sherlock caught up. "When it's hobbit versus daddy-long-legs, I don't usually win."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and fell into step beside the soldier.

"What have you been doing with yourself all this time then, apart from consorting with Mycroft?"

"Give it a rest, John. I wasn't in and out of Whitehall every week, you know."

"What then?"

"I spent some time in Tibet, studying a certain type of martial art with the Buddhist monks and then, when I was sure Moriarty's agents were no longer watching the borders of Europe, I travelled back through Russia and across Germany to the Netherlands and then down into the south of France. I have been working on carbon nano-tubing in Montpellier with an acquaintance from university for the last seven months, waiting for an opportunity to cross the Channel and move back to London."

"And after all that sneaking around, you're just walking through the middle of the city without any kind of disguise?"

"Hiding in plain sight."

"Oh right."

They reached the corner shop and John went in, emerging a few minutes later with not only milk, but a new box of teabags and a packet of Digestive biscuits. Sherlock loitered outside and observed the comings and goings of everyone around him. There was no where on earth quite like his London. His and John's London.

"Sherlock? Let's go."

They started back for the flat.

"Your turn now, John. How was Afghanistan?"

"Hot and dusty, much like the last time."

"Don't be facetious, John , it doesn't become you."

"It was what I needed. I thought you were dead... I needed the thrill of the battle again."

"I know you're not living at 221B; you're presumably posted at a barracks somewhere?"

"Yeah, near the RAF base at Brize Norton."

"...Oxfordshire?"

"Yeah."

"Are you planning on leaving- the army, I mean- then, now I'm back?" John was surprised at the uncertainty in Sherlock's tone. He was even more surprised at the uncertainty in his own answer.

"Well, my contract doesn't end for another eight months, so I can't leave until then. And we've been posted again anyway."

"Surely not Afghanistan? Not so soon after-"

"No, it's Cyprus."

"Bit of a holiday then?"

John chuckled. "Pretty much. It's only six months and there shouldn't be any trouble. And... well, I'll see about leaving after that."

Sherlock's eyes bored into him. They were nearly at the door to 221B.

"The thing is, I'm about to be promoted, provided I don't fuck up anything regards my company in Cyprus and after that, I'll probably be taken off active service. I could see if I could be moved up here, get a position in the MOD offices..."

"It wouldn't be the same, John." Sherlock felt it was only fair to warn him.

"I watched you die, Sherlock. I can handle change."

John's eyes were suddenly cold and hard and he entered 221B without another word. Sherlock followed.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **A big thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alerts and favourited it, and a _huge_ thank you to those who have taken the time to review. Hope you enjoy chapter 6 :)

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><p>Twenty minutes later and the tea had brewed, and John sat in his worn old armchair with a steaming mug in his hands. He closed his eyes and pretended that he wasn't angry with Sherlock, angry that he had died and thought that John would always be waiting for him, like a dog. He wasn't Sherlock's mongrel stray; right now he was the property of the British army, with the tags warm against his chest to prove it.<p>

He sipped his tea and wished himself back to three years ago, when Moriarty was still just a shadow and Sherlock a warm gravity well with the whole world trapped in his orbit. John had felt safe, then, because their enemies were always after Sherlock- he was just a bystander, the pawn in a much larger game. Then, with Sherlock dead, John could feel the eyes turning on him, looking up from below, waiting for him to fall too.

He had decided to escape. The army was familiar, comfortable, as easy to fit back into as his old combats and fatigues were. He was free and in control; he had a hundred men and women under his command and he was a good soldier and the best doctor in the regiment. How could Sherlock expect him to want to change back to his old life, where it was always Sherlock_ and_ John? He had once more come to enjoy being addressed as "sir" and "Captain" and for once when he entered the room,_ he_ was the most important person there. _He_ was the one that everyone looked up to and respected, not Sherlock. For once he had made his life about him and then all of a sudden Sherlock had swept in as usual and wanted everything his own way.

"No." John's voice surprised himself.

"What?" Sherlock had been sat staring into space until John spoke, his tea cold and untouched.

"The answer's no, Sherlock. I'm staying in the army. You made your decision to leave three years ago. I'm making mine now. Don't try to change my mind."

"I wasn't going to," Sherlock said softly. He seemed unfocused. "You go and play tin soldiers with all the little people. It makes no difference to me and my work."

"TO HELL WITH YOUR WORK, SHERLOCK!" John exploded. "Who in the world actually gives a fuck if one of 'the little people', as you put it, gets murdered or kidnapped? You certainly don't care! You just want the mystery and that's what the police are for! You may as well have died for all the good you do in the world!"

"You don't-"

"No, I didn't mean that."

"John-"

"You're not getting an apology." John wouldn't meet Sherlock's eye. "You might ask why the hell I want to risk my life every day, fighting for people I don't even know. I can't answer that. But if I know one thing, Sherlock, it's that I don't enjoy seeing people die. Unlike you, I'm not amused by watching the life drain out of someone who gave his blood for his country."

"Is that what you're hoping for then? To die in a blaze of glory? John Watson, the courageous hero, giving his life for those he loved? Bravery is-"

"By far the kindest word for stupidity, I know, Mycroft told me."

"Actually..." Sherlock shifted in his seat. "I was going to say bravery is the quality I admire most in you, John. Even now- you're standing up to me, telling me what you believe in, challenging me to fight back. You are the most courageous man I've ever met."

John was speechless. He had sat and abused Sherlock for two solid minutes and out of it all had come the one praise that he'd craved his whole life. He was brave. He swallowed, unable to speak.

"I think you should know," Sherlock continued, "That I had no choice after Moriarty killed himself. Unless his snipers saw me die, then Lestrade would be dead. Mrs Hudson would be dead. And you, John, would be dead. There was nothing I could do; you had to truly believe that I was gone for good. I don't know what I was expecting when I came back... but I had hoped... I had wistfully hoped you would continue my work."

"I'm... Sherlock... Sherlock, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know... I had no idea..."

"Yes, I realise that now. I did think that you would listen to the recording I made of the final conversation between myself and Moriarty, but I clearly miscalculated your reaction. If you had, you would have probably understood a little better."

John's mouth was dry, but his eyes weren't. For the second time in two hours he found himself in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, face buried in his shoulder, his shoulders shaking with frustration and apology. As the two men stood there, John realised that Sherlock was crying too. They clung to each other for some time, each finding solace in the other's embrace. John knew that the brotherhood of the army would no longer be enough for him, because he now knew that he was Sherlock Holmes' equal.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Had a few comments about Sherlock in the last chapter, his attitude, characterisation etc. Let me just say he is very hard to write! And any difference from canon is to be expected in non-canon circumstances. Anyway, on with the story. Keep on R&R-ing :D

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><p>Dusk was just beginning to edge its way into Baker Street by the time Sherlock had explained just how he'd survived the jump from the hospital rooftop. John had been astonished, but now understood why he couldn't be part of the plan. Mrs Hudson had tutted and drunk a lot of tea and Lestrade couldn't believe his ears. He had started scribbling furiously as Sherlock illustrated the finer details of how easy it was to fake a suicide. It turned out he was currently investigating the death of an oil tycoon's son. As Sherlock drew his narrative to a close, Lestrade began to relate the tale of Raj Al Dayr, and both Sherlock and John grew more and more interested as the story played out. The young man had apparently committed suicide due to money troubles, but there was no weapon to be found in the room. The door had been locked and the room was four floors up; it was unlikely anyone could have entered through the window.<p>

"We'd better pay a visit to the scene of the crime, then," Sherlock said. "John?"

"Yep, I'll come. Better change into some civvies first; I'll be down in a minute." He jogged upstairs to his old room, taking his khaki pack with him.

"Are you sure about this, Sherlock?" Lestrade's face was sincere. "John's a changed man, since..."

"So I hear," Sherlock said sharply. "But what you fail to notice, as always, Lestrade, is the obvious. John is willing to come with us to the crime scene, therefore John is not as changed as you or I might think."

"Whatever you say. I assume you'll follow in a cab, as usual? The address is 427 Park Lane. Oh, by the way," he said, pausing at the door. "Shall I tell Anderson you're coming?"

Sherlock smirked. "Let's surprise him."

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><p>Fifteen minutes later, John was sat in a cab next to a silent Sherlock , who was brooding in a way that only Sherlock could. He felt a little uncomfortable wearing his civilian clothes; his body had become tighter and harder over the past year, and the shirt and jeans he had chosen were a little baggy and ill-fitting. However, the weight of his revolver in his pocket did a lot to ease his nerves and as the cab sped towards their destination, John remembered exactly how it used to be. It used to be like this.<p>

The journey was a short one and they were soon at 427 Park Lane. Lestrade was waiting on the doorstep to let them in. John craned his neck to look up at the five storey house, worth something in the region of ten million pounds and its occupants considerably more than that. Lestrade explained that the rest of the family were co-operating with the investigation and had moved out of the house to allow Anderson's forensics team full access to the crime scene.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock," Lestrade said as he led them upstairs. "But Anderson's already left- he's got everything he wants. They're going to remove the body as soon as you're done."

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes darted from left to right, examining everything in the minutest detail. Lestrade pushed open the door to Raj Al Dayr's room and Sherlock quickly inspected the lock before entering. His eyes swept the room and John watched as he ran his hands over the body slumped at the desk.

"Shot through the forehead. Clearly not a suicide, Lestrade."

"I thought as much."

"The window's broken," John observed. "From the gunshot?"

"Presumably," Lestrade said. "The only problem with that theory is the bullet. It was a soft-nosed revolver bullet."

"So the killer would have to be relatively close to hit him that accurately."

"Yeah."

John peered out the window. On the other side of the road the dark expanse of Hyde Park stretched out into the gloom. There were no trees tall enough or close enough to enable the killer to shoot Al Dayr with a revolver. John could see no way around it.

"You're wrong," Sherlock said softly. "He wasn't killed by a shot from a revolver. The bullet was fired from a very high-powered German air rifle, adapted to fit revolver bullets. I can prove it to you." He swiftly exited the room and they heard him clatter down the stairs.

"Come on!"

Lestrade and John could do nothing but run after him. Sherlock was just climbing into a cab as they left the house, and a couple of bemused constables watched as they piled in after him and drove away.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" Lestrade was anxious for clues.

"Back to Baker Street." He glanced at his watch. "We have about two hours."

"Until what?"

"Until you witness a recreation of the murder of Raj Al Dayr. Do keep up, Lestrade."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Longest chapter so far! Hope it makes up for the wait :) Enjoy :)

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><p>The cab dropped the three men a few streets away from 221B and Sherlock strode quickly away from the road, silently disappearing into a dark alley. John and Lestrade jogged to keep up, their eyes straining in the pitch dark. Sherlock seemed to have radar vision, for he navigated the back streets and mews as effortlessly as he did in broad daylight. He finally halted at a high corrugated iron gate, and sprang with cat-like grace onto a dustbin and so over.<p>

He stood and watched as John pulled himself up to the top and then helped Lestrade over as well, holding one gloved finger to his lips to indicate the necessity for their complete silence. He beckoned them over to stand in the shadows against the wall of the house, then spoke in an almost inaudible whisper.

"We are going to go up to the second floor of this house. Don't worry, Lestrade, it's empty; the last occupants moved out almost four years ago. Do you have any hand cuffs on you?"

"Never without them," Lestrade whispered back. He flashed them a glint of steel.

"And John, you have you gun?"

"Of course."

"Then we shall proceed. Follow me. Tread only where I tread."

Sherlock crept up to the mouldy back door, and unlocked it, then held it open, locking it again behind us. The house, like the street outside, was pitch dark, but evidently uninhabited. John's heavy boots creaked on the bare floorboards and Sherlock frowned, his brow thick in the dim light. He lead them slowly upstairs, pausing for a few minutes every time one of them made a noise, but finally they made it to their destination, the biggest room on the top floor, whose windows looked out onto the street below.

Sherlock motioned for John to join him at the window and whispered in his ear.

"Do you know where we are?"

John stared at the houses opposite.

"Isn't that Baker Street?"

"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which is directly opposite to our old flat."

"But why are we here, Sherlock?" Lestrade interjected, his whisper decidedly annoyed. "It's all a bit Scooby Doo for my liking."

Sherlock sighed. "Please try to keep your voice down," he admonished. "If you would care to cast your eye over the street, you will find your explanation."

Both Lestrade and John peered out of the murky window at 221B. John saw it first.

"What...?" He was staring at Sherlock Holmes's silhouette, clearly outlined in the window opposite. He touched Sherlock's arm to ensure that he was still standing next to him.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Sherlock softly. "Within the next hour, there will be an attempt on my life, by none other than the man who killed Raj Al Dayr by shooting him through his bedroom window from a quarter of a mile away in Hyde Park with an air rifle adapted for hand gun bullets. Fortunately, due to a simple projection of my head and shoulders, I can be in two places at once."

Lestrade grinned, his teeth showing through the gloom. "And the murderer will walk right into the trap."

"Precisely. I suppose you'll need his name for the arrest; he is Colonel Sebastian Moran, the best sniper to come out of Catterick in the last fifty years. He was dishonourably discharged from the Paratroopers eight years ago, after which he became one of Moriarty's most trusted agents. He somehow found out that I survived my 'suicide' and has been trying to track me down for at least ten months. And now he thinks he's found me."

Lestrade nodded and John racked his brains for the name, but came up empty handed. What a coincidence it would be if he had served under the man who was currently plotting to kill Sherlock in completely cold blood.

Sherlock's ears suddenly pricked and his body became almost imperceptibly tense, as though he had heard something in the street. He pushed John into the darkest corner of the room and pointed Lestrade behind the door, then crouched down next to John.

All at once it became apparent that they were not alone in the empty house. Footsteps, intended to be silent, reverberated harshly as they came quickly up the stairs and into the very room where the three men crouched in the shadows. John saw that the doorway became blacker than black as a figure of a short, thin man stood there for a second and appeared to sniff the air, before making his way across the room and opening the window. His face, illuminated in the dull light cast by a street lamp further up the road was gaunt and twisted, his grey hair grizzled and his hands dirty.

John peered intently at the shadowy man, one hand clamped over his mouth to hide the sound of his breathing. The man pulled out a bulky object from inside his coat and proceeded to fiddle with it, setting it up so that it faced the window. Finally, with a long, sharp click, the man slid the barrel into place and twisted it, locking the mechanism. It was the air gun.

John watched as the man expertly loaded the gun, and lay on his stomach on the dusty floor. His eyes gleamed like stars as he stared down the sights at the shadowy target in the room opposite and he sighed gently as he cuddled the butt if the rifle into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. There was a quiet hiss and the sudden sound of breaking glass as the bullet shattered the window across the street. The indistinct silhouette of Sherlock vanished.

The real Sherlock was instantly a blur of movement. He leapt onto Moran's back and pinned him to the floor, and in the next second, John's gun was at his temple and Lestrade's handcuffs on his wrists.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder of Raj Al Dayr and for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. You do not have to say anything, but it is my duty to warn you that any statement you do make may be used as evidence against you." Lestrade's voice held a smidgen of triumph.

Moran growled but held still on the floor. "You got me good and proper, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock acknowledged this with a smirk.

"How long did you know it was me that killed that bastard Al Dayr?"

"Since before you even fired the shot. I have been watching you, even as you have been following me, and although I tried to prevent you from murdering him, you would not listen."

"_You_ were-?"

"I gave my name as Reverend Peters, yes."

"Fuck."

Lestrade, meanwhile, had been on the phone to Scotland Yard. "A couple of officers and a squad car are on their way over, Sherlock. You got anything you want to add?"

"No thanks, Inspector. If you can stand the draught from a broken window, I can give you all the remaining details of the case in a few minutes, comfortably situated with a cup of Mrs Hudson's best brew by your side."

John and Lestrade manhandled Moran down the stairs and out of the front door this time, on to Baker Street, the police car pulling up just as they reached the pavement. Two rather broad constables pushed him into the back of the car, then sat either side of him. In the light from the street, John could see his face more clearly; battle scarred and old, but with some strange kind of contentment behind the eyes. It seemed Moran was satisfied with defeat by Sherlock Holmes. The car drove off and John was left to ponder just exactly what war did to people. The answer that came from his heart was not one he liked.


	9. Chapter 9

After about half an hour of mumbling, frowning and note taking, Lestrade finally seemed satisfied with Sherlock's explanation of Al Dayr's death and the attempt on his own life. He had some how found out that Al Dayr owed Moran a large sum of money, which he had been unable to pay back because he'd gambled away most of his late father's fortune and spent the rest on a few expensive male prostitutes. Moran had ruthlessly murdered him.

However, he'd made a mistake- by using the air gun to shoot Al Dayr from across Hyde Park, he had unwittingly revealed to Sherlock just how he'd planned to kill him. Sherlock had been anticipating it for months, so when the Al Dayr murder signalled that Moran was back in London, he was completely ready. He'd had a wax bust made and one of Mycroft's faceless Foreign Office operatives had set it up, much to Mrs Hudson's confusion.

The bullet had shot straight through the temple of the bust and squashed itself flat on the opposite wall. Sherlock let Lestrade have it as evidence, although John thought he had probably wanted to keep it- for scientific reasons of course; John knew Sherlock would never admit he was being sentimental.

"Well, thank you Sherlock- it was a tough one." Lestrade seemed to be struggling with something. "I just wish your fake suicide wasn't necessary."

Sherlock looked down at the floor and for a moment, almost looked sorry. Then he met Lestrade's eyes.

"Oh no, Lestrade. You've been doing so well without me. I read about how you cleverly deduced that it was the father who did it, and not the mother, when those twins were found dead last year." There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Lestrade had been on his way to the door but he stopped and turned around again.

"I had a note through my letter box the day I closed that case," he said, eyes narrowed. "Are you-"

"The note said simply: 'Investigate father. He is lying about his alibi.' I'm glad I could be of assistance."

Lestrade just gaped for a second, then closed his mouth and shook his head.

"God help me, even when you're dead you can't stay there. I don't know." He sighed and left the flat, whistling quietly to himself

Sherlock smirked as the door closed with a snap behind the policeman.

"So he does have a sense of humour."

John frowned. "What?"

"He was whistling O Fortuna from Carmina Burana. Don't look at me like that- you can use Google."

John sighed.

"You're perfectly right, John. Nothing's changed."

"I know."

"You must have enjoyed tonight. Just a bit?"

"Yeah, okay, I did." John sighed again, more heavily this time. "Listen, Sherlock, I've made a decision about staying in the army."

Sherlock's ears visibly pricked up.

"I obviously have to complete the tour of Cyprus that my battalion's been assigned, then after that I'll have two months left until my contract ends. Those two months will no doubt be spent doing either paper work or PT on base, neither of which are that exciting; however, I'm pretty sure my promotion's coming up. I'll be taken off active service because I'll be the same rank as the regiment's commanding officer, Major Horrocks, and he's younger, so they're not likely to transfer him away or pull him off tours to do a desk job. I'll probably be asked to renew my contract for an indefinite order, where you can give notice and leave, like any job. And, with a large dose of luck, I could be assigned to work in London. But that is rather unlikely."

Sherlock nodded pensively. "And if you were assigned here, what would you do?"

"It'd probably be teaching work, or else administration in the MOD offices. I could be asked to become a health adviser for the strategy planners, but you'd normally rank higher than Major for that."

"Sounds like fun."

"Well, teaching wouldn't be that bad, but again, it's a question of rank. I'm too old to gain much more time in the field, but too low ranking to do any decent job out of combat. It's a bit of a Catch-22 really."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You had me worried earlier John, with your terrible knowledge of opera, but I have to say, an apt comment about cult literature far surpasses Lestrade's feeble attempt at humour."

John chuckled. "I do try."

"So what would you be after Major?"

"Er, Lieutenant Colonel, or possibly straight to Colonel depending on how long you've served and in what capacity. If I do get promoted after I'm a Major, it's actually fairly likely I'll be made a Colonel, because I've been serving for, ooh, twelve years now. But the whole scenario's pointless to imagine anyway. I'll be made a Major, given my medals and stuck in a dusty office for ten years until they discharge me. Maybe I _should_ leave..."

"No. You'd regret it." Sherlock's voice cut sharply through John's thoughts.

"I know."

"So, we wait until after Cyprus, I suppose?"

"Yeah. Good old Cyprus. I'll be leaving in three weeks, by the way."

"I'd better make the most of this then," Sherlock pulled a few papers out of his desk. "Did you hear about this kidnapping case?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And so, my merry band of followers, we come to the end of this part of the story. But fear not! for the next part is waiting in the wings. This actually marks the first time I've ever completed a multi-chap story. I actually hadn't planned to end this here, but it felt natural to do so anyway. Look out for the next part within the next few days- tentatively entitled "**Small Worlds**". It will chronicle the next chapter of John's life, starting with Cyprus- where romance may be brewing ;) Thanks for joining me on this whistle-stop tour of Sherlock's return. I hope the next installment proves to be even better! :D

-Gnome


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